


out of the lightning dream

by Lire_Casander



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 07:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20149750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lire_Casander/pseuds/Lire_Casander
Summary: round here we talk just like lions, but we sacrifice like lambs





	out of the lightning dream

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anonymous prompt over at tumblr: _Where Alex is waiting at Michael's place for him while Michael is with Maria, and there's an explosion at Michael's place (maybe Jesse Manes being a dick or something goes wrong in the underground lab under his trailer) and Michael can't get in touch with Alex to see if he's ok?_.
> 
> I own nothing except my mistakes. Title and summary taken from _Round Here_ by Counting Crows. 
> 
> Again, not a single word here would have made any sense without the great beta work done by [estel_willow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estel_willow).
> 
> **Please heed the warnings. They are here for a reason. I'm warning readers once again: this story contains angst and major character death. Read at your own risk.**

As much as he wants it to, his Chevy won’t speed up. He pushes down on the pedal, hearing the roar of the engine protesting against the overexertion. Michael swears under his breath, “Now’s not the time to break down, old friend,” but the truck remains at its cruising speed a little below seventy miles per hour. 

The desert stretches in front of him, he can almost smell the dust from the dunes if he tries hard enough. The last of the town buildings disappear in a blur of movement as he _finally_ gets the Chevy up to speed. He needs to get to the cave as soon as possible, if what he’s felt is true – a thunder collapsing against his chaos, rendering him breathless and crying out in the middle of the Wild Pony, with Maria hovering above him worried sick – then maybe it’s too late for any of them. He has to find out whether his mind has played tricks on him and Max is actually sitting cross-legged in front of the pod barely holding Rosa Ortecho together.

He’s approaching the end of the city limits, ready to hitch the 285 up to the turquoise mines, when a loud noise catches his attention. He turns his head to the left, the vision hitting him like a brakeless freight train. There is a giant ball of fire shooting up into the blue November sky, lighting up the clouds that are lazily sliding across Roswell right above what he knows it’s the junkyard at Sanders’ Auto. His eyes widen in what would have been a comically expression hadn’t it been for the fear gripping at his insides with an iron fist. He swerves to the left violently, heading the truck towards the fire instead of away from it.

The last few miles until he deems it impossible to drive through the thick smoke feel like a too long stretch he can’t cover in one jump.

Michael pulls up near the entrance of the junkyard. The smoke is thick enough to prevent him from seeing anything, but he needs to get out of the car and wade through it to reach his trailer. His heart sinks when he realizes the Airstream has to be right in the middle of the fire.

Bravely he opens the door and steps into the haze of smoke surrounding everything. Not knowing what’s happened, he tentatively steps forward, cataloguing everything he can see through the smoke – pieces of scrapped cars blown away by the force of the explosion, flames licking the side of the Airstream that’s turned over its side, leaving the hatch to the bunker in the open. The dormer is blown up too, and the flames climbing up from the bunker tell him the story of something combusting on its own in the secluded space where he gathers – _gathered_ – his research to get off this planet and into the vast unknown.

Michael feels a grip on his heart, squeezing tighter around the bruise he already has from feeling Max snapping out of consciousness right on the outskirts of their shared connection. Arson or accidental, the fire is consuming his life-long hope of having a future that doesn’t translate into him wasting away amongst whiskey and acetone. As he approaches the Airstream like he would do with a wounded wild animal, his mind registers the lump next to the lawn chairs scattered in between the small bonfires created by wind and spread. It’s then when his heart effectively stops beating, his world slowing down until all he can see – all he can focus on – is the mop of black hair peeking out from beneath one of the scraps scrambled all around, probably sent flying by the explosion.

Michael Guerin has never run _forward_ as fast as he does when his legs catch up with what his eyes are seeing.

He slides through the fires, dodging sparks and flames threatening to make him combust, until he skids to a halt in front of the Airstream. For a terrifying moment he doesn’t know what to do, how to react, before he falls down to his knees next to the debris, surrounded by a sick brightness that could light an entire town. He’s long forgotten Maria and the way she kisses like the world’s ending and spinning at the same time; he’s completely oblivious to the fact that Max might be alone and in pain somewhere hidden beneath layers of sand in the middle of the desert. His focus is centered on the silhouette slumped on the dirty soil, heart beating hard against his chest as though it wants to tear the skin open and leap to rest where it rightfully belongs.

Michael told _him_ to come talk in the morning, only to promptly forget about it the moment his hand was healed. Michael had led _him_ to that same spot where now both of them remain boneless and barely breathing. Michael had sworn he’d always love _him_, only to leave him waiting on something that’s now a figment of a past of never ending failures. He reaches out a shaking hand, breathing shortened by both the smoke and the suffocating guilt, and turns the lump over.

Alex has his eyes closed, and if Michael didn’t know better he’d think Alex is off to some peaceful slumber. He fumbles to find a pulse in Alex’s neck, in his wrists; he leans in and places his ear on top of the ripped maroon sweater to try and hear the rumble of blood coursing through Alex’s veins. He tries and tries, tears hindering his vision and splashing down on Alex’s spoiled leather jacket. He’d cry a whole ocean if it meant that the fire could be put out, that time could be reversed.

He’d crawl back into his pod if it meant life could be breathed back into Alex’s lungs.

He shivers, shaking the body he once learned by heart, willing Alex to just _wake up_, because he knows he’s made a mistake and he wants to make amends, he wants Alex to know that despite all the pain and the fear and the disasters colliding against them, Michael has never seen an ounce of Jesse Manes reflecting from chocolate eyes that bore too deep into Michael’s soul. Despite Caulfield and the lies and the crash landing, there’s nowhere else Michael can call _home_ than those arms that now fall limply at both sides of Alex’s body as Michael sobs uncontrollably.

They will never get the chance to talk about important things like who’s in charge of walking the dog in the mornings or when it rains. They will never get the chance to share a bucket of popcorns while bundled in a blanket in their couch. They will never get the chance to find out whether they can be cosmic together instead of cosmically torn apart by fear and hammers.

They will never get the chance to be _them_.

Michael’s life has been chiselled by lightning and fire – a spaceship shredded to pieces, a house full of candles to brand a crucifix on pale skin, a car wrecked to make believe a crime that was never committed. It’s only poetic justice that he leaves Earth in a burst of light and thunder, clinging to Alex in an attempt to offer his own existence in exchange for a future where at least one of them can smile again. Nobody listens to his pleas as he burrows his face in the crook of Alex’s neck, staining the collar with a trail of salt and atonement. He howls into the skin, losing control of his powers, turning the Airstream over again and forcing it to clash against his Chevy. Scrap metal and lawn chairs and steering axles converge in a tornado that brews around them, its eye dwarfing until Michael can only feel his own chaos swirling inside his head.

He allows the fire to engulf them both as his entropy quiets.


End file.
